Afterward, Keith lay alongside Gunther and drifted, waking only briefly when Gunther rose, collected his clothes, and silently departed.

Chapter Seven

Keith was up and out the door at six the next morning. As was his habit, he walked the block and a half to Whole Foods and bought a doughnut. But rather than returning immediately to the hotel, he found himself, for the first time, pacing the aisles. Soon he had an armful of ingredients—eggs, heavy cream, milk, butter, spinach, nutmeg, gruyère, which he toted back to the hotel in a newly purchased green reusable bag. Without allowing himself to think about what he was doing, he began to cook. First came the crepes, completed one at a time and layered with sheets of waxed paper to keep them from sticking together. After that he prepped creamed spinach filling and grated gruyère. He brewed coffee. He waited, surfing through television channels until his proximity alert informed him that Gunther had exited the elevator. Then he bounced to his feet and began to assemble breakfast, filling the first crepe before he heard a knock.

Gunther’s manner was exactly the same as it had been the previous day. No casual observer would have suspected from looking at Gunther that they had made love less than twelve hours ago in this very bed.

Really, the only person displaying a change of behavior was himself.

Keith decided not to think about that at all.

“Want some breakfast?” he said. “I made crepes.”

Gunther smiled. “Yes, please.”

“Do you like spinach?”

“I’ve never really had a spinach crepe before, but I probably do. So far I like everything except banana pudding.”

Keith folded filling into the four remaining crepes and handed the plate to Gunther, along with a fork.

“Aren’t you going to have any?” Gunther asked.

“I already had a donut.”

“So you made these specially for me?”

“I wanted to cook something this morning.” Keith knew that this wasn’t really an answer, but he wasn’t ready to actually think about an answer either. He didn’t want to plumb the murky depths of his own motivations. It was perfectly reasonable to want to make breakfast for a man you had sex with the previous night. The urge toward hospitality contained no special significance. And yet, he found himself carefully scrutinizing Gunther’s reaction.

Again, nothing special. He was a chef. Chefs all wanted to know how their food had been received. He paid no special attention to Gunther, nor should he.

If he told himself this enough times, Keith thought, certainly he would eventually believe it.

Suddenly, Gunther glanced up, noting Keith’s stare. “These are amazing, but I really feel awkward eating them all alone.”

“I’ll get myself some coffee.” Keith rose, poured himself a cup, and to change the conversation, asked, “So do you know many other gay goblins?”

“Trans-goblins,” Gunther corrected, then added, “No, hardly any. During the transformation process virtually anything can be determined about a baby. Few parents want to give their child an orientation that will make their human lives less easy. My parents were the exception to this rule.”

“Are you telling me that you were made gay on purpose?” Goblins, Keith thought, truly were a breed apart. Apart from common sense, mainly. But then he caught himself in his own disturbing condemnation. Why shouldn’t parents want a gay child? Goblin or not?

“My parents thought my godfather was the ideal human, so they wanted me to be as much like him as possible. I joined NIAD to follow in his footsteps. You’ve probably heard of him. Half-Dead Henry?”

“The Undead Bum?” The words leaped from Keith’s mouth before he could jam his foot in to stop them from escaping. “I mean—”

“No, you got it right: the Undead Bum.” Gunther took a forkful of crepe and chewed it thoughtfully. “You remind me of him, somewhat.”

“How’s that?” Keith tried to keep his tone neutral, but he couldn’t help but be slightly offended by being compared to a famous hobo.

“Your tattoos. The way you don’t seem to be able express yourself emotionally. And your terrible diet. Henry eats cold chili right out of the can. Are you sure you won’t have this last crepe? They’re very good.”

Keith hesitated, on the edge of turning back from a second refusal. Again that unthinking inspiration struck and he just said, “I would, but I’m too lazy right now to lift a fork.”

“I could feed it to you,” Gunther said. “That’s what you want me to do, isn’t it?”

“God, no. I’m not a little kid. Give me that.” Keith took the plate and fork and ate the crepe in six bites. It tasted better than he expected. He wiped his mouth and, finding Gunther staring at him, leaned across the table and quickly kissed him.

“Are you—”

Keith held up a silencing hand. “I haven’t changed my mind about talking about it.”

“I didn’t think you had. I was about to ask if you wanted to question Bullock now.”

“I think it’s about time. Is she still at PPB or was she moved to the NIAD detention facility?” Keith asked.

“I’ll call.” Gunther did so. Keith listened absently, while finishing the dishes. He heard Gunther say, “I see.”

Gunther’s tone alarmed him and Keith turned back to see that his partner’s expression had grown dark. He said, “What is it?”

“Bullock was dead in her cell this morning. Suicide. I guess she knew the penalty for cannibalism after all.”

Chapter Eight

While Gunther spent the day visiting homes and interviewing members of the local trans-goblin community, Keith remained in his hotel room, staring at his own laptop, sifting through tens of thousands of pieces of text.

Looking.

Searching for any connection.

Keith made grilled cheese, brewed coffee.

Around ten p.m., Gunther returned. “Find out anything interesting?”

“Samantha Evans, the booker from Lulu’s Flapjack Shack, has gone missing. Her mother reported her disappearance to the PPB and they sent out an officer to investigate, but according to the PPB report, her boyfriend says it’s not uncommon for her to take off for a couple of days without telling anyone,” Keith said. “What about you?”

“I had to drink seventeen cups of tea, but I did manage to catch up on every piece of trans-goblin gossip for the last fifteen years. Lancelot, our goat-seeking goblin musician, has recently lost both his parents in a boating accident.”

“A suspicious accident?”

“Not at all.” Gunther leaned back, closed his eyes. “Nothing even remotely suspicious about him. Everybody loves him as far as I can tell.”

Gunther yawned mightily. Keith waited for him to continue. He did not. A minute later Keith said, “You can take the bed if you want, Heartman.”

Gunther complied, lurched up out of the chair, and flopped onto the bed limp as a side of salmon slapping down onto a chopping board.

Thinking that he should persevere, but tempted beyond all reasonable measure, Keith made it ten more minutes before joining Gunther on the ugly bedspread, then between the freshly changed hotel sheets.

Approximately five hours later, at 3:06, PPB called them out to take a look at a foot.

The foot in question had been found lodged under some fallen wood near an observation point in the Smith and Bybee Wetlands Natural Area. The foot was pale as wax. It had four toes—all of them very long. Each greasy white digit ended in a horn-like yellow talon. The most striking feature of the foot, though, was its NIAD vampire-identification bracelet looping the burned and slimy ankle stump.

“We called this cuff into the office and they gave us your number,” the police officer said. “I would have called the department of wildlife myself. Since it doesn’t look like a human foot.”

“It’s not a human foot.” Keith knew he stated the obvious but felt the need to say something. “Don’t worry, I’ve got the gear to take care of it.”